Title: Bloodied Turrets - part of `Into Obscurity' series
Author: Liberty
Email: <jessa_88@hotmail.com>
The Idea: 10 stories from 10 different POV's. A no holds barred look 
into their mind.
POV: Drusilla
Rating: PG-13 
Spoilers: For `What's My Line'
Summary: My take on the scene in `WML: Part 2' Quotes are taken
from the episode and the rest is Dru's thoughts. 
Improv #31: bittersweet -- crack -- candle -- ring
Disclaimer: The characters are property of Joss Whedon, David 
Greenwalt, Mutant Enemy, etc. Lines in <<word>> are the parts from
the actual episode. (God I wish I could use italics)
Author's Notes: Well, we all know that Dru is crazy so don't expect 
this to make a lot of literal sense. 

*


<< The lamb is caught in the blackberry patch. . . >>

Eenie. . . meanie. . . minie. . . mo. . . Daddy burns. A curse. A 
soul. . .

You tried to gouge away the sparrow's eyes. Didn't you? Hide and
seek. You tried to. . . breathe in vanilla. With poisonous air. 

Her eyes glittered like silver on a Tuesday afternoon. . . husha. . . 
husha. . . we all fall down. . .

You love the girl. . . 

Silly Angel. I can see it on your hands, like chocolate. Her heart is 
bleeding all over. Luscious sanguine tears from heaven. 

<< My mummy ate lemons. Raw. . . She said she loved the way they made 
her mouth tingle. . . >>

You hide behind your fingers because you don't want to remember. But 
it is impossible to forget the sound of porcelain bones crushed 
beneath golden hands. 

You must have laughed, it would have been glorious to hear, but the 
screaming in my ears blocked out the sound. It is a faded, neon
memory but every minute the screams are still here. Laughter would 
have been nice. 

Mummy used to braid flowers in my hair on warm summer nights. 
Hyacinth, Jasmine and all things lavender. She said the scents would 
soak into my hair and make me beautiful. Her eyes would curl up and 
she'd smile like a cat, all warm and knowing. The crows were always 
walking by her eyes. 

Those lines weren't meant to hold rivulets of blood, pouring from 
fearful eyes. Those hands weren't meant to claw desperately at your 
back. 

Those few small flowers weren't meant to wither in the sun.

The silent bird cries loudest but only because it weeps.

<< Her favourite was custard. . . brandied pears. . . And 
pomegranates. . . >>

The universe is a thousand miles of fire of which I am just a flicker 
in the dying of a single flame. Immortality means nothing when the 
world itself is mortal and therefore everything on it dies.

I'm not the touch, but the sweat. I'm not the fangs, but the poison. 
I'm not the death, but the memory. Try to play hide and seek with me 
and you'll never, ever find me.

The poppies falling. . . one. . . two. . . three. . .

Dripping wax to form blood red candles down my cheeks. 

I'll give you one for Valentine's Day, Daddy. 

You love red, remember?

There's blood. . . on my hands, splayed everywhere. Painting pictures 
on the wall. Dead daisies and crosses. Death that's bitter. Bitter, 
bittersweet. You paint the flavours on my tongue but still don't 
believe.

I did. . . I did touch the stars with drops of ivory. 

My pet laughed at me for saying so. His imagination seems to be
crying at him. No hope. No love. 

He doesn't know. You won't tell, will you my sweet? I told him the 
bird died and he yelled as though I'd made a mistake. But I know the 
bird is dead. I'm dead. He is dead. You are dead. 

The blood runs from our eyes, blinding us. We walk at night, the sky 
cloaked, hiding from the stars. 

<< They used to make her face and fingers aaall red. . . >>

Do you not see? All of this is wrong. . 

No. Of course you don't. . .

You've forgotten already. . . about the drawings of hearts on the 
wall. . .

You look up at me with desperate eyes. I hate your heart for not 
beating. I can't talk without you thinking it's a joke. Except that
my tears are like ivory. And tears have always spoken to you.

<< Remember? Hmm? Little fingers. Little hands. Do you? . . . >>

Did your bones crack against the ceiling on the way to Avenida? Do
you remember at all?

I see the fire burning. In your eyes. In your stomach. Like acid. 
Bitter juices down your throat. Lemons and broken glass.

Do you dream of shadows? Dancing backwards, like paper dolls, against 
the stone. Happy, little, Christian girls with posies in their hair. 
They smell death and run. 

Haunted faces. 

Run, run, as fast as you can.

Do you cry for them? Are you sorry, my angel?

<< They used to eat cake. . . and eggs. . . and honey. . . >>

I am what I am what I am. . .

<< Until you came and ripped their throats out. . . >>

What you made me.

Ring around the rosie, pocket full of posies, husha, husha. . . we
all fall down.


finis.

FEEDBACK: <jessa_88@hotmail.com>